When She Laughs
by clandestinus
Summary: Richard reveals a much hidden talent to impress Isobel.


**Hi everyone! This is my first time writing anything like this and it will likely be my last as I'm definitely not a creative writer by any means. However, I love reading all of your work. You are all so talented and I mean that!**

**This is a scene I have been toying with for a while. I am a big fan of ellylilly-pcmh's "The Scottish Play," so I incorporated a small detail about Richard from that. If this is terrible, you can tell me…don't be shy! It is a tad long for a one-shot but I do hope you enjoy reading.**

**I suppose all rights to these characters belong to Julian Fellowes even though I don't trust him to do the right thing with these two! Also, the title of this piece and the last line is based off of a beautiful song by the artist Bibio titled "Haikuesque."**

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Not a word was spoken between them when she entered the hospital again. After a few quiet weeks spent alone in her grief at Crawley House, he didn't expect her to say anything at all. The shock of hearing the familiar pace of her walk down the hall wore off after a few moments when he then heard the echo of her warm voice in his head, "Surely, I must be of some use."

The weeks went on, and every morning at 9 o'clock Richard Clarkson would hear the steps grow closer and then fainter as Isobel Crawley made her way down the hall to her office. It was a modest room Richard had arranged especially for her, once filled with old medical records and bulky furniture. Shortly before the war broke out, he had spent an entire weekend cleaning it up for her, struggling and exhausting himself to get it just right, cursing her with every bump of his head and splinter in his hand. He had even gone so far as to place a picture of Matthew on her newly polished mahogany desk, with a vase full of flowers he picked from the garden out back. At the time, he wasn't exactly sure why he was doing all this for the woman whose stubbornness and assertion made him clench his fists and grind his teeth in insufferable frustration.

But when he saw the sparkle spilling from her eyes as he led her down the hall, his hand holding her fingers, it began to make sense to him. The wonder and curiosity written on her face had warmed him so much that he couldn't help but laugh out loud. As he opened the door, her reaction was almost childlike, gasping in admiration at what he had fashioned for her. She opened every drawer, read every book title on the shelf, fussed over every flower in the vase.

Yet Isobel's greatest excitement came when she saw the upright piano that sat perfectly underneath the window. She could only play a little, she told him, but it calms her so much in times of great stress. She hurriedly explained how wonderful an idea it was to have a piano in an office, but he stopped hearing her after noticing how the light broke through the window and into her hair. Her dark blue dress was like midnight, but the rest of her radiated like the sun at high noon.

He leaned on the threshold of the doorway and gazed at her in an admiration that completely enveloped him, and he knew that he had done this not only because she deserved it with her unending dedication, but because he wanted nothing more than to see that raw and exultant smile, knowing that he had made her truly happy.

As painful as it was, he forced himself to remember this every morning as her heels clicked on the tile. It had been so long since he had seen the smile that was so maddening and contagious to him. Though he could never forget the perfection of her teeth and the scrunch of her nose, the uncertainty of when he would see her smile again did nothing but cloud his mind.

Since she came back, the two of them would take tea together in her office every afternoon. It was mostly small talk about the weather for the upcoming weekend or the latest on baby George and Mary. Other times, they would just sit in complete silence, enjoying nothing but the tea in front of them and the comfort of each other's company. They never spoke of what happened to Matthew, they never spoke of what happened at Thirsk. He knew by looking at her to never speak of either one out of fear of completely breaking her. After years of working together and studying her in infatuation, her body language spoke volumes to him. She had always walked carefully and cautiously, as if she was balancing the very earth on her strong but feminine frame. At Matthew's funeral, he noticed that her quiet confidence had immediately dissipated, the curve of her shoulders and back seemed to be protecting her from her own broken heart. But day by day, he noticed her strength coming back. The glow in her skin, the light in her hair, and the warmth in her eyes all shone a little brighter each afternoon he saw her. However, the smile was something that he still could not uncover.

The summer sun broke full force one June afternoon, and with nothing but the dull but always-present paperwork to keep him occupied, Richard grew restless in the heat of his office. He had thrown his jacket off earlier in a bout of heat-fueled frustration, hastily rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, figuring it was appropriate behind his own closed door.

The sun illuminated the area rug where he thought that surely he and Isobel would kill each other during the war. He rolled his eyes and smiled to himself when he thought of their constant bickering and arguing on that rug, her feet firmly planted in determination, his constant pacing in aggravation. It was truly a marvel to him how she was then an exact combination of both an absolute disturbance and an absolute necessity. She was the beauty of the earth personified, in ways that were so complex to him that he knew he would never tire of discovering more about her. He felt a tinge of sadness when he thought of all the years of their friendship, realizing that he had only scratched the surface of the intricate Isobel Crawley.

His contemplation was cut off by another wave of heat, and he decided he couldn't stay in the confines of his office a moment longer. Though it was only one o'clock, he decided to visit Isobel a bit early, and figured since her office was on the other end of the hall, it would be a bit cooler.

He knocked lightly at the open door as he made his way in. The cross of her legs and the knot of her hair as she studied the records in front of her made him feel like he was staring at a real-life painting. And though it did not take away from her grace, the sight of her absent-mindedly biting the bed of her thumb made her all the more lovely to him. She could not give any response to his entrance, simply too immersed in her task at hand to look up.

Richard looked around the office, noticing that not much had changed at all from the time he had put it all together. The picture of Matthew was still on her desk with the vase of flowers he was sure to replace each Monday before she came in. The books on the shelf were rearranged constantly every time she needed to pull one for reference, and the piano still sat in its same spot underneath the window. He rarely heard her playing, just a few hymns here and there when the days were really slow. But as he pulled the cover from the keys, he noticed that she truly cared for it by keeping it dusted and clean.

Richard turned back and saw that her posture hadn't changed. She was still fiercely preoccupied with what was in front of her, but her stillness let him know that she knew he was in her company. He glanced at the piano and ran his fingers across the white piano keys, feeling the ridges underneath the bed of his fingertips. He looked back at her, then at the piano. His mouth twisted with apprehension, but he sat down so quickly and hit the first note before he had time to even give it a second thought.

Upon hearing the chords fall together, Isobel's eyes grew wide and she withdrew her hand slowly from her bottom lip. She adjusted herself in her chair to face him, her head tilted curiously as she studied the strength of his shoulders and the height of his elbows as his hands moved slowly across the keys. She noticed his gentle swaying back and forth in time to the piece he was crafting rather than playing. She rose slowly out of her chair and walked tentatively over to the instrument.

Richard felt his heart quicken when he saw her emerald skirt in his peripheral vision. His hesitation before hitting the large sequences had made the notes ring out even more distinctly, and he was careful to keep his eyes and hands steady on the ivory, for he knew how easy it would be to fall into complete distraction.

His fingers hit the last note, followed by the release of the sustaining pedal. He then put his

hands in his lap and lifted his face to meet hers, and was suddenly overtaken by what he was looking at. She was truly ethereal, the light striking her hair in the same fashion from so many years ago, the cream in her blouse setting her skin alight. But what really took him by surprise was her graceful form leaning over the top of the piano with her hand underneath her chin, holding the most gracious and genuine smile he had ever seen from anyone, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"No need to get all bashful and blush, now," she teased. "That was marvelous, Doctor. I had no idea that musicianship was in your trade as well! Why didn't you ever tell me?" Her eyes grew wide with anticipation for his reasoning.

"It was honestly something I had never thought of sharing with anyone," he explained. "My mother insisted on my brother and my sister learning, and I was no exception. But I did enjoy it so, and I never stopped teaching myself new pieces to play."

"Which one was that one?" she asked, leaning on the piano with both forearms, her smile growing wider.

He cleared his throat. "La fille aux…cheveux de lin…" he stuttered, peeking up at her when she laughed at his Scottish tongue tripping over the French words.

"I take it the French language is not in your trade, though," she said through a grin.

Richard chuckled and shook his head, embarrassed at his failure of trying to impress her a second time.

"Debussy?" she asked curiously. "Do you know anything else by him? I'd love to hear how you play more of his work."

"Aside from that, Mrs. Crawley, I'm afraid I can't show you much more from him. But if you give me a while, I'm sure I can come back with more." He rose slowly from the bench, gingerly placing the cover back over the keys.

"I would love that," she said softly, her smile falling. "And I would love it even more if you played for Isobel," her words slowed, "and not just Mrs. Crawley."

"Richard will certainly see to it," he replied, looking at her gently, his heart soaring at the smile she gave him in return.

After a brief moment locked in his gaze, she looked down and pursed her lips. "It was very rude of you to interrupt me. I'm a busy woman, you know."

He placed his hands over his heart and tilted his head back. "Please forgive me, my dear Isobel. I know not what I do. Next time, I'll be sure to make an appointment," he said playfully as he made his way through the door and down the hall.

Isobel leaned against the threshold, her arms crossed, and wearing a smile that felt as if it would never go away.

"Maybe you should be sure to put a jacket on, too," she called out. "You're lucky you're not Branson."

Richard's face flushed a bright red as he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes transfixed on his bare forearms, and Isobel's laugh ringing like a resonating piano throughout the hall.

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**I hope you listen to the Debussy piece I incorporated. It so reminds me of them. Please review if you have the time; thank you all! **


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